Son of the high ones, child of the LightElf friend and man lord, jewel of nightThe writer of truths deep hidden in talesThe prophet of beauty and the doom it entailsThe speaker of old tongues and poetry greatThe singer of ballads, the weaver of fateJohn, the myth makerRonald the sageReuel of ValinorTolkien the mage.

Happy Birthday, good sir. We are lesser since you set sail into the West.

I had a dream, which was not all a dream.The bright sun was extinguish'd, and the starsDid wander darkling in the eternal space,Rayless, and pathless, and the icy earthSwung blind and blackening in the moonless air;Morn came and went--and came, and brought no day,And men forgot their passions in the dreadOf this their desolation; and all heartsWere chill'd into a selfish prayer for light:And they did live by watchfires--and the thrones,The palaces of crowned kings--the huts,The habitations of all things which dwell,Were burnt for beacons; cities were consum'd,And men were gather'd round their blazing homesTo look once more into each other's face;Happy were those who dwelt within the eyeOf the volcanos, and their mountain-torch:A fearful hope was all the world contain'd;Forests were set on fire--but hour by hourThey fell and faded--and the crackling trunksExtinguish'd with a crash--and all was black.The brows of men by the despairing lightWore an unearthly aspect, as by fitsThe flashes fell upon them; some lay downAnd hid their eyes and wept; and some did restTheir chins upon their clenched hands, and smil'd;And others hurried to and fro, and fedTheir funeral piles with fuel, and look'd upWith mad disquietude on the dull sky,The pall of a past world; and then againWith curses cast them down upon the dust,And gnash'd their teeth and howl'd: the wild birds shriek'dAnd, terrified, did flutter on the ground,And flap their useless wings; the wildest brutesCame tame and tremulous; and vipers crawl'dAnd twin'd themselves among the multitude,Hissing, but stingless--they were slain for food.And War, which for a moment was no more,Did glut himself again: a meal was boughtWith blood, and each sate sullenly apartGorging himself in gloom: no love was left;All earth was but one thought--and that was deathImmediate and inglorious; and the pangOf famine fed upon all entrails--menDied, and their bones were tombless as their flesh;The meagre by the meagre were devour'd,Even dogs assail'd their masters, all save one,And he was faithful to a corse, and keptThe birds and beasts and famish'd men at bay,Till hunger clung them, or the dropping deadLur'd their lank jaws; himself sought out no food,But with a piteous and perpetual moan,And a quick desolate cry, licking the handWhich answer'd not with a caress--he died.The crowd was famish'd by degrees; but twoOf an enormous city did survive,And they were enemies: they met besideThe dying embers of an altar-placeWhere had been heap'd a mass of holy thingsFor an unholy usage; they rak'd up,And shivering scrap'd with their cold skeleton handsThe feeble ashes, and their feeble breathBlew for a little life, and made a flameWhich was a mockery; then they lifted upTheir eyes as it grew lighter, and beheldEach other's aspects--saw, and shriek'd, and died--Even of their mutual hideousness they died,Unknowing who he was upon whose browFamine had written Fiend. The world was void,The populous and the powerful was a lump,Seasonless, herbless, treeless, manless, lifeless--A lump of death--a chaos of hard clay.The rivers, lakes and ocean all stood still,And nothing stirr'd within their silent depths;Ships sailorless lay rotting on the sea,And their masts fell down piecemeal: as they dropp'dThey slept on the abyss without a surge--The waves were dead; the tides were in their grave,The moon, their mistress, had expir'd before;The winds were wither'd in the stagnant air,And the clouds perish'd; Darkness had no needOf aid from them--She was the Universe.

Even though the full poem did not make it into The Vampire Relics, the prophecy implied was certainly a driving force in Gideon's massive collection of prophecies. It was also one of the guidelines that defined Magnificat and many of the band's songs that shared its arcane mood.

If you find 'The Sanctity of Shame' intriguing, you would probably enjoy the Vampire Relics trilogy. All three books are available on Amazon in both paperback and Kindle format. Just click the picture below to be taken to the Amazon page.

Barry Andrews has made a new blog post to the Shriekback Tumblr. If you like the bit I'm posting here, just click the picture to be taken to the full post. It's pretty damned fascinating, and I'm sure you'll enjoy it.

I find it interesting that these two art moments documenting a terrible existential awakening both happen at the seaside and that it was the Victorians who invented the old school English seaside holiday (with all it’s hearty stoicism insisting on fun in the face of the elements ('brrr -nice out of the wind though'). This, alongside grim philosophical introspection. How does that work? What I unfailingly get from my own marine meditations is a sense of perspective ('too much fucking perspective' as the Spinal Tap boys say).
The primal, merciless sea right up against humanity at it’s most lovable, ridiculous and vulnerable (those goosepimpled bodies in summer; off-season, the garish lights and fragile, tinny music from the pier timorously jutting out into the sombre ocean). Who are we kidding that we’re important or serious?

Barry has also uploaded a version of the song on his Soundcloud account. Click the cormorant to access the song, and click Barry if you want to go to his Soundcloud bungalow.

There was a consensus, especially when I was growing up, that a Vampire was essentially this ugly creature of the night. Sure he was charming and could appear lovely but, when he was in full Vampire mode, he was this hideous creature. I personally never saw the Vampire in this way; rather, I thought of the Vampire as this beautiful being with the ability to prey on humans because of our obsession with all things of beauty. I didn't see the Vampire and think of Count Orlock, I saw the Vampire and thought of George Gordon Lord Byron. There have been instances in my life where I would say so-and-so was a Vampire and they'd take exception to it, or those around me would disagree, thinking that I was insulting this person. That couldn't be further from the truth.

In The Vampire Relics there's the ability that most Vampires have called Glamour. When I write about this, I'm not speaking of jewels and Hollywood high fashion. I'm referring to the following definition:

Vampires could, as I put it in the books, "throw a Glamour" on their intended victim, not to make that victim think the Vampire was attractive when he was not, but to irreversibly seal that person's doom. The victim would be so lost to the beauty of the Vampire, he or she may not even realise the pain of death. Some Vampires, like Cadmus Pariah, have a natural Glamour that pulls the hapless throng of humanity to him without any effort on his part. He need only throw this power out but a little to have the same effect on Vampires. When it comes to the power of Glamour, Cadmus is the most powerful in history, even more so than the Original Ten Vampires.

In real life, I gauge the people around me by this idea of Glamour, and how much of this power a person has over me. If I'm deeply influenced by another's beauty or charm, then that person is, for me, a Vampire. By the same token if, say, an actor is playing a Vampire, that actor may become attractive to me when s/he may not have been before. For example, I've never found Colin Farrell to be exceptionally attractive. Now that he's playing Jerry Dandridge in the remake of Fright Night, I'm all about me some Colin. It's strange how that works, but I'm smart enough to realise that Vampires were the primary influence on me as I entered puberty and I have since spent my years of sexual awareness attempting to capture my animus as defined by the Vampire archetype. (that sounds like something Cadmus would say)

So, if I refer to you as a Vampire, I'm giving you the utmost highest compliment that I can manage. It doesn't mean that I find you merely attractive. It means that I find you unequivocally enthralling, that I would pretty much do anything simply to be in your presence because it makes me feel delicious and sublimely prostrate to your lure. I am enraptured by your very existence, as you define my own. If I have called anyone reading this a Vampire, I hope that this definition makes some sort of sense to you and that you are not offended by my candour. None of this means that I am in love or even in lust with the Vampires in my life; it simply means that my Vampires are the pinnacle of attractiveness for me. There is absolutely nothing ugly about them, and there never can be.

If I have called you a Vampire, I have bestowed on you the greatest compliment I know. Accept it with honour and the satisfaction that someone holds you in such high regard. If anyone is curious as to whom I think is a Vampire, just comment and ask and I'll tell you. I have no shame ha ha!

**EDIT**Speaking of the animus, I wrote a poem about that about twenty years ago. I just found it, so here 'tis.

ANIMUS

She beheld the shining beauty of the mystery in his eyesand she danced in flames of majesty no horror dare disguisejust to summon forth the passion ling’ring underneath his skinand to share with him the pleasure of dark secrecy and sin.

Swirling like a double helix in her sanctity and graceshe invoked the terrible beauty of that mask upon his faceand he placed her soul among his treasures deep within a dreamand held it hostage by the nightmare of a Darkness yet unseen.

”O! Cleave unto him, pirouetting childe of fragile light!”Sang the spirits gone before her into neverending Night.”All joys pale to his dread touch, the threads of his desire.Dance into the flames ~ submit your soul to his dark fire!”

In the House of SpidersI am dreaming of his breathHow he takes me ever closerTo the precipice of deathHow his fingers brush me lightlyHow his lips move at my earIn this silent House of SpidersI am lost within my fearHe has blessed me with his presenceIn the dark and deadly nightAnd he has touched my living spiritLike a raven taking flightI’m a slave to his entreatiesI’m in awe of his dread stareI’m a dancer to his melodyThat fills the sacred airAnd all of this is dreamingBoth the dreamer and the dreamedWhilst in the House of SpidersDream and dreamer are redeemed.

So I have Orphaeus and Cadmus improvising a song on stage at one point in The Blood Crown. And, being the Method Writer that I am, I was improvising right along with them, writing out what they decided to sing as they sang it. This is what came out. I wrote this during NaNoWriMo, so I really don't remember writing it. That's how it is for me during NaNo. It's like Trance Writing or something. It's trippy, like an LSD experience or something. I dunno. But whatever, this sounds like something Mike Myers would read in a coffee house after marrying an ax murderer.

When all is dreaming out amongst the night, my dearest darlingsYou and I, we're wont to fly, like wraiths and dreams,delighted DarklingsWhen moon is bright with howl of wolfAnd Piper's Gate at Dawn is locked'Gainst all but the mad and lostYou and I, we're wont to dream, like flights of fancydark in the delights of our reverieAs ripples drawn against the reflectionCast upon a secret sacred poolWe'll see the promise of all the delightsWhat the Earth has to offerAnd those ripples go ever outwardGrowing larger and taking in the whole of CreationThe ever-hungering Hermit who winds the clockWith utmost concern to be had.

Oh, nice! I found this whilst waiting on a major file transfer to finish up (still waiting). This poem is from 1997, or 1 BSE (Before the Sith Era). I was in love. No, I wasn't just in love. I was hopelessly in love at first sight even! Of course, we're dealing with Humanity, so things turned out badly. Ah well.

I'll Sing His Song

When I looked into his eyes and saw his spirit thereDancing in tranquility like down in Summer's airI fell like leaves from maple trees and plunged into his heartTo rest in fragile symmetry no grief could tear apart.

I'll sing his song unto the moon, the Lady silver brightAnd cherish every melody he heralds in the nightNo light is keener 'mongst the stars that shimmer in the skyHeaven's gentle symphony shines sweetly in his eyes.

Hey, it's poetry time! For the newbies, I like lyric poetry, reading it and writing it. I'm fond of Beat poetry too. All the rest leaves me cold. I mainly write lyric poetry. If you don't dig such, you way want to stop reading now.

THE IVY GARDEN

I walked in the Ivy Garden with my eldritch lover paleAnd, strolling with me 'neath the moon, he told me this sad tale:"I once loved on sunny days and worshiped life and light,"But I was stricken by a lust for blood one black and bitter night."And I have wandered shadowed paths for many lonely years"And everywhere I seem to roam, I inspire hate and fear."

We walked in silence for a while. The ivy curled aroundThe willows and the trellises and snaked along the ground."But I love you," I finally said and I gazed into his eyes,Finding there the monster that the living world despised.Yet that I loved more than aught else, for the spirit knows its kinAnd I was bound as much as he in the prison of my sin.

My lover took me in his arms and embraced me as he sang.Throughout the Ivy Garden, his ethereal voice rang,And his music took me back in time to ancient alien daysWhen mythic people ruled the land with gentle Elfin ways.And sorrow's tears fell from my eyes for all that we have lost,And I begged to be taken far away no matter what the cost.

But he cried when I asked for his sanguine gift as he dried my pensive face,"I cannot curse you with my Blood, you'd fall from Holy Grace.""But haven't I already?" I asked, my voice low. "I'm not alive, been dead for years, I only want to know"That what we have, you and I, will never fade with time."Take me to your shadowed haunts and make Forever mine."

The wind blew soft and sweetly and the stars turned crimson redAs my lover drank my pain until I lay in the ivy, dead.The living world is dying from its self-inflicted woundsAs the Ivy Garden flourishes beneath the waning moon,And I go walking with my lover, eldritch, pale, and sad,For death in life or life in death is all we've ever had.

And they're talking about Syd Barrett, my love, my heartbreak, my mad mad genius. I wrote him a poem 21 years ago. Actually, I wrote him many poems, but this one pretty much says it all for me. May my tortured boy rest in peace. And, yeah, for me he'll always be my sad young man who didn't just stare into the Abyss, he leapt in. What on Earth did he see on his Acid-fueled Shamanic journeys? What terrible, beautiful, incomprehensible things did he see? I know that 'Wish You Were Here' and 'Shine on You Crazy Diamond' were written for him, but 'On the Turning away' will always be my Syd song because I was listening that when I read about Syd for the very first time. It breaks my heart to hear that song. In my state of insomnia, I feel closer to him now than ever before.

The Only Thing Left

Your eyes, they look troubled, such beauty in pain.Your heart aches with sorrow, your tears fall like rain.You can't seem to capture the torrent of thoughtsYour mind is producing from all you've been taught. Your art went beyond you, your fears drove you mad.For one with such talent, you now seem so sad.You sit in your room with your head in your hand.You stare at the people who don't understand.And, gazing inside you to see what is there,You find the truth is that you don't really care.The songs were mere whimsy, your art was a lieAnd the only thing left is your desire to die.

Your holy Eye rests upon me in the velvet of night.You have taken me in your eagle's wings.Your lions have devoured me.You are the promise of life.You are the Throne of the World..The winds are Your song, the evening is Your stronghold.Rubies and sapphires rest upon Your starry brow.

You smile at me, gently embracing my spirit,Binding my magicks to Yours, and in You shall I reposePeaceful as pyramids.

I'm home from work. It was my first night at Dollar General. I went in at 3 PM and, by 4 PM, I was working by myself as a cashier. After 5 PM, it was just me and the assistant manager, Steve, who was stocking shelves after the truck delivered three trillion products. So, yeah, I was truly by myself. I occasionally had to page Steve to the front but, for the most part, I let him be and I think he was happy about that, considering he was so busy. I've never been a cashier before, so this was a fun new experience. The number one lesson I've learnt so far: when you're a cashier, you can no longer run away from people you've successfully avoided in public in the past.

But I'm so tired. I've been wide open since 5:30 this morning, and working since 6, with only an hour break from 2 to 3 PM. I can barely blink my eyes. In fact, I'm having Aunt Tudi help me blink them, or just blink hers in my place.

While I perish of exhaustion, please enjoy this picture of me with my "big tricked out name tag."

Even though it's really bad, Aleister might like this one, since he inspired it after all.

Aeon

How many days have the ravens flown across the slated sky,In search of the messages about the Child Most High,The Aeon who will come at dawn and bring the New Age forthWhere enlightened ones will live in peace all around the Earth?How many days has it been, my love. How many more will pass?The ravens' wings grow tired, my love. How long can they last?

The reason why I post poems occasionally is because I find them and feel I can always access them here when I lose them again. And I do mean when, not if, because I'm about as organised as a catatonic maniac on amphetamines.

When I was younger, I used to pump out tons of bad lyrical poetry. Some poems were worthy but, looking back at them, most of them were crap. When the 21st Century hit, it seemed that my capacity for writing bad poetry disappeared. Today, I found the last poem I wrote. It was written for my Kung Fu teacher and for Llew. Even though it's probably crap, I'm still rather fond of it. I'm posting it here so, if I lose the poem again, I can always access it on the Cliffs of Insanity.

I wrote this at work today. It took about thirty minutes or so, and I've transcribed it here unedited. Honestly, I'm not certain there's anything I need to do to change it. It's not the best poem in the world, but it pretty much sums up what I hope will eventually be a trilogy of Vampire books, the first already finished, polished, and begging to be published by some hapless agency chomping at the proverbial bit at the to see Cadmus, Kelat, and their crazy mixed-up blood-sucking buds from the depths of Gehenna.

So, maybe over the next few days, as I study it further, some changes will be made here and there. We shall see.

The vague coolness in the air captures my sensibilities, whispering the promise of the coming chill, the kind that permeates the bones and will not leave without the potion of hot, sweet tea and cream to chase it away. It's on mornings like this that I think of him, the manifestation of my patron god, and I wonder if he's preparing to roam the forests and connect to that primal spirit that stirs so restlessly within him. That ancient entity that is so strongly manifested in his heart that anyone who knows can see it shining from his velvet eyes.

One of my favourite personal invocations to my patron god, Herne/Cernunnos, was also a love song written for my soul mate. I've posted this before in my journal, usually around this time of year. Who am I to fight tradition?

I wrote this quite a few years ago. It's my love song to Herne and my soulmate, who profoundly embodies Herne.

Song to HerneI went a-walkin’ through the woodsone misty Summer mornto hear the sounds of rustling leaves that Autumn’s trees had shorn.I went a-searchin’ down a pathconcealed by moss and fernfor Him who would my lover be ~the gentle hunter Herne.

I looked beyond the shady grove,beyond the thicket green,across the dewy meadow bright,the crystal river clean.I trod in silence by the willow,standing sad and stern,to find the Stag King’s castleand the gentle hunter Herne.

I chanced upon a villagein the forest I did roam,and I found a happy peoplekeeping happy little homes.And in the eye of every manI saw His spirit burn,and I knew within their heartsthere dwelt the gentle hunter Herne.

At length I found His castlein a ring of standing stones,and I heard His voice calling forthin mystic primal tones.Within the halls I followed deerwho led me to His door and, when I looked upon the God, I’d seen His face before!‘Twas the visage of my one true lovemy spirit had discerned.Forever had I loved this man,this gentle hunter Herne.

I haven't much to write about, yet I'm keen on writing something. Actually, I should turn my attention to finishing The Chalice but, to be honest, I really need at least one day's break from it. I'm getting to the portion of the book where all the main characters are together. My head isn't large enough to fit them all in at once, but it must be done. Yes, I know this is all I've been writing about for the past month, but there's not much else going on. One thing I want to include in the book is poem I wrote that eventually came to be the lyrics for one of Magnificat's songs. The lilt and tempo might be very familiar to peeps in tune to certain things.

Enigma (the Masque of Cadmus)

As you drift dangerous past my eyesI see the mask that once you woreAnd you are hunting down my spiesThat watch you, wanting ever moreThe illusions far beneath your skinSurfeit with great uncertaintyAnd I'm in earnest to dig inAnd reach your soul for me to see

Your mask may scare me out of sleepYour dreams are nightmares for the weakYour passion drives my heart to weepIt's your enigma that I seekAnd what I found was always mineAnd what I say I've said beforeYour kisses taste like blood and wineAnd leave me spent upon the floor

Yes, we shall see what dreams can shareAnd we shall touch that holy placeAnd when we sleep we'll travel thereTo find ourselves in sacred spaceWe'll go to where the fountains singTo listen to the night's refrainWe'll hear the Bells of Silence ringThen dance the nightmare trip again

It's not even 7PM yet, but it feels like it should at least be 10PM. After dealing with the 24-hour Belly Splooge, I'm feeling kinda of weak and tired. Here's hoping I'm not in the same boat tomorrow. I have to go to The Pit and have Jan fill out her portion of my credit card insurance papers. Once I get that done, I can mail the necessary paperwork to the appropriate souls, sit back and let the insurance pay against my debt for at least 6 months. These companies also pay like 3 to 4 times the minimum amount due, so I'm looking at very small credit card statements once my insurance runs out and my 401k money is in my hot trembling paws. I have to get up early tomorrow to take Motley over to Dr. Patch's. Hopefully, he can treat her and give her back to us tomorrow afternoon. Aunt Tudi is quite keen on adopting Motley because she looks so much like our Paisley, may she rest in peace. The only difference is, Motley has no tail. Like her brother Lynx, Motley is a button-butt.Tonight, I think I shall watch a DVD until I pass out. This is no different than any other night. My life is so exciting.

William Butler Yeats is more prophet than some of the so-called prophets cherished by Bible-thumpers.

Turning and turning in the widening gyre The falcon cannot hear the falconer; Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold; Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world, The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere The ceremony of innocence is drowned; The best lack all convictions, while the worst Are full of passionate intensity.

Surely some revelation is at hand; Surely the Second Coming is at hand. The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi Troubles my sight: somewhere in sands of the desert A shape with lion body and the head of a man, A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun, Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds. The darkness drops again; but now I know That twenty centuries of stony sleep Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle, And what rough beast, its hour come round at last, Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?

She beheld the shining beauty of the mystery in his eyesand she danced in flames of majesty no horror dare disguisejust to summon forth the passion lingering underneath his skinand to share with him the pleasure of dark secrecy and sin.Swirling like a double helix in her sanctity and graceshe invoked the terrible beauty of that mask upon his faceand he placed her soul among his treasures deep within a dreamand held it hostage by the nightmare of a Darkness yet unseen.”O! Cleave unto him, pirouetting childe of fragile light!”Sang the spirits gone before her into neverending Night.”All joys pale to his dread touch, the threads of his desire.Dance into the flames ~ submit your soul to his dark fire!”

I got enough to send B The Bed of Mysteries. I'm not sure whether to be terrified or embarrassed by my presumption. The moment I clicked send, I regretted doing it, but I knew that would happen. Really, I think I'm going to be sick now.

I was going through my files here at work, trying to clean out some rubbish, and I found this ~ something I wrote last year...and obviously inspired by Barry Andrews' style and mystery.

The Sanctity of Shame

A thousand years the Whisper drifted, singling out its soulsThose who heard its message threw their bodies on the coalsA thousand more it breathed its ineluctable refrainInto the ears of hopelessnessThe Sanctity of Shame.

Abomination spake its tongue, this Whisper of an AgeForgotten by the Idiot, the Maiden, and the MageIts power is Unknowing for, unknown, there's no defenceDerision breeds destruction breeds the child and its offence

And so begat the Whisper, twining silent in the darkTo bring the babe a nightmare and a tremour of the heartThe stain of blood on urgent lips from whence the Whisper cameThe sacred song of sacrificeThe Sanctity of Shame.